


Little Things

by SunnyD (sunrize83)



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 13:04:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16368179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunrize83/pseuds/SunnyD
Summary: Missing scene for "Starsky's Lady."





	Little Things

Life brings us magic  
And life brings us tragedy  
Everyone suffers some loss  
Still we have faith in it  
Childlike hope  
There's a reason that outweighs the cost

The Color of Roses -- Beth Nielsen Chapman

 

His face stops me cold, two cups of barely consumable hospital  
coffee clutched in my hands. All my senses sharpen, intensify, in  
the same kind of "fight or flight" response I get whenever Starsky  
or I are in danger. The heat seeping through the styrofoam to warm  
my palms. The acrid, slightly sour tang of disinfectants--and the  
even less appealing odors they're intended to cover. The noisy  
protests of a belligerent patient, and the soft squeak of rubber soles  
on linoleum.

And in the midst of it all, Starsky's face.

Pale.

Shell-shocked.

Grief-stricken.

Just words, completely inadequate for describing what I see written  
so clearly in features I know better than my own. I wait for him to  
notice me, for some sign of recognition. But in spite of the body I  
see slumped against the wall, Starsky is gone--trapped in a dark  
and lonely room without windows or a door.

I've only seen this look on his face one other time, and never with  
such intensity. We stood in a park, green grass beneath our feet and  
warm sunshine on our heads, while I struggled to tell him that the  
lady he'd loved was dead.

Oh God, Terry. No.

I set the coffees down on a dilapidated table before cautiously  
approaching him.

"Starsk?"

Even though I deliberately pitch my voice low, he startles as badly  
as if I'd done my Dobey imitation. His posture stiffens, spine rigid,  
and his eyes...

Oh God, his eyes are like two open wounds. He's teetering on the  
edge, barely holding it together, keeping tears at bay by sheer  
willpower alone. His lips move, his throat works, but several  
seconds pass before he can muster an audible response.

"Hutch, I...I don't...I can't..."

A nurse strides by, pushing a cart holding complicated pieces of  
machinery, the left front wheel squeaking and clicking. Starsky  
turns away, one arm braced against the wall, forehead pressed to  
the plaster. I step in close so that my body will shield him from  
curious eyes, and lay one hand on his shoulder. He's shivering, his  
entire body trembling as if exposed to the biting, 30-below-zero  
cold I left behind in Minnesota.

"Easy, Starsk. It's going to be okay."

Both shoulders draw up to his ears and he gives a sharp jerk of his  
head. His voice is rough, raspy with tears. "It won't though, Hutch.  
'S never gonna be okay again." 

I duck my head and try to look into his eyes, but he has them  
squeezed tightly shut. "What are you saying? Did you talk to Dr.  
Quo?"

A long pause, then another dip of his head. Starsky's eyes open and  
he stares blankly at his feet for a long moment before his gaze  
wanders to my face. His skin is ashen and the sluggishness of his  
response worries me. 

Shock, I think, tightening my fingers on muscle and bone. He's in  
shock.

Two more nurses and an elderly couple meander past, the former  
ogling us with more than polite interest and the latter arguing about  
whether their insurance plan covers prescriptions. Starsky makes a  
heroic effort to look normal, swiping at the beads of sweat on his  
upper lip with one shaking hand and tugging on his jacket with the  
other. Despite his efforts, he still looks ready to either fall on his  
face or break into sobs. I'm desperate to know what he's been told  
about Terry, but if we try to do this here, my partner will shut  
down.

"Hang on. This way." I grab a fistful of leather and tug him along  
the hallway.

The fact that Starsky basically allows me to manhandle him  
without arguing or protesting speaks volumes about his state of  
mind. Unfortunately--or fortunately, in this case--I've come to  
know this hospital almost as well as I know Metro. Down the  
hallway, a left followed by a quick right, and I push him through a  
door. The chapel is small, dimly lit, and blessedly empty.

Starsky gazes up at the spotlighted cross and one corner of his  
mouth lifts in a sad imitation of a grin. "I appreciate the thought,  
partner, but dontcha think I'm a little outta place here?"

I engage the lock on the door. "It's just you and me. No one's  
watching. No one's going to walk in on us." I move closer, as  
carefully as if approaching a wounded animal. "Talk to me,  
Starsk."

Starsky surprises me by walking away--turning his back on me,  
and drifting over to stand with one hand gripping a wooden pew. I  
allow him the distance, even though my instinct is to wrap my arm  
around him in a comforting embrace. This is about Starsky, not  
me, and if he needs the physical separation to give him an illusion  
of control, so be it.

"She looked so beautiful," he murmurs, talking more to himself  
than to me. "A little pale, yeah, a little tired, maybe, but  
not...not..." He turns haunted eyes on me. "She was worried about  
me, can you believe it? Lyin' there in a hospital bed, a bullet in her  
head, and she's worried about everyone but herself. Me, Sally and  
those damn pompoms..."

I let him talk. Whenever Starsky has to go to the dentist, he takes  
the long route, using side streets and back alleys that probably add  
a good fifteen minutes to the trip. He can't avoid trying to postpone  
the inevitable, but he always gets there eventually. I figure the  
same holds true now.

Something in my face makes the words catch in his throat, and he  
turns away again. When he continues speaking, I have to strain to  
hear.

"Dr. Quo says an operation would kill Terry."

I struggle to decipher the meaning behind his words. "So...what are  
they going to do?" Before I realize it I've taken several steps  
toward him.

"Nothing."

"Nothing? You mean they're just going to leave the bullet in  
there?"

A nod.

Deep inside I know what Starsky is really telling me, but I refuse  
to acknowledge it. Guess I'm not above taking the long route  
myself.

"You said she looked good, a little tired, but good. I've heard of  
people living for years with hunks of shrapnel in their heads,  
maybe..."

"She's gonna die, Hutch."

The words are toneless, and they hit me in the gut harder than any  
of the numerous sucker punches I've been dealt by less than  
cooperative crooks. I lick my lips, try to force words from a mouth  
suddenly as dry as the desert.

"Starsky..."

He finally looks at me, still fighting his emotions. "They'll kill her  
if they try to take it out, but sooner or later that stupid little piece of  
metal is gonna move. And when it does, she'll die anyway. How's  
that for your basic catch-22?" He pauses to suck in a ragged breath,  
blinking hard. "They know it's gonna happen, they just can't say  
when."

I work to get my own feelings under control, eyes burning and  
throat tight.

Terry.

Unbidden, I have a vivid memory of the day Starsky introduced me  
to the girl who had so swiftly and completely stolen his heart. He'd  
been acting goofy and love-struck for nearly three weeks, but it  
certainly wasn't the first time I'd seen my partner fall for a pretty  
woman. Starsky never does anything halfway, whether he's  
chasing down a suspect or plunging head over heels into love. Still,  
I'd sensed a difference in him this time around, though I hadn't  
been able to put my finger on just what it was.

He'd invited me to join them for dinner at The Pits--just me, alone.  
I'd shown up early and parked myself in a booth so I could watch  
them come in. I knew I was acting like a father checking out his  
kid's date, but I didn't care. Neither Starsky nor I have had the best  
luck with women, and the last thing I wanted was for him to get  
hurt because his heart short-circuited his brain.

Starsky and Terry walked through the door a few minutes later.  
The first thing that struck me, was the way they touched each  
other. Starsky's territorial, and it's not unusual to see him draped  
over whatever lady happens to be his latest conquest--an arm slung  
around her shoulders, a hand resting on her hip or waist. As I  
watched, Starsky held the door and then followed Terry through,  
stopping to greet Huggy. All without laying a finger on her. The  
thing was, he didn't have to. There was a connection there, a  
closeness I could see in the way they moved, in their body  
language. You didn't have to wonder if they were a couple, it was  
expressed naturally in every look and gesture. A sideways glance.  
The brush of her hand on his arm. The way he leaned in close to  
hear her speak. 

The second thing I noticed, was that she wasn't what I've come to  
think of as Starsky's 'type'--tall, blonde, and built. Oh, she was  
pretty, especially when she smiled, but it was a quiet beauty, not  
loud and showy. Huggy must have cracked a joke then, because  
they'd both laughed and Terry had tipped her head back to gaze up  
into Starsky's face.

And I'd seen it. Something passed between them, the same sort of  
nonverbal communication that Starsky and I share. A raised  
eyebrow, then her lips pursed into a little grin and Starsky  
responded with a barely detectable wink. A message sent and  
received, just the way Starsky and I had done it countless times in  
Dobey's office, on the streets, in court.... 

After another few words with Huggy, Starsky had spied me and  
steered Terry in my direction, a hand at the small of her back.

"Hey," he'd said, letting her slide in across from me before taking  
his own seat. "You musta got here early. Hutch, I'd like you to  
meet Terry. Terry, this is Hutch."

Still a little stunned by what I'd witnessed, I offered my hand and a  
smile. "Hi, Terry. It's nice to finally meet you."

She'd accepted with that same little grin, her hand feeling absurdly  
small in mine. "You, too. Dave talks about you all the time." She'd  
glanced briefly at Starsky, then the grin got bigger and she leaned  
across the table. "Tell me the truth, Hutch. Is he really the worst  
Monopoly player in the world, or is it all just an act?"

And I'd known, like puzzle pieces clicking together in a perfect fit.  
Terry wasn't what Starsky once irreverently referred to as "the  
flavor of the week." Terry was the real thing, here to stay.

And as time passed, I'd grown to love her too. We shared  
something special after all, a mutual affection that bound us  
together as strongly as blood.

How could this be happening?

I let my eyes slip shut, groping for words, for some kind of  
response to the unthinkable. "Are they sure? Maybe a second  
opinion..."

"Dr. Quo sounded pretty damn sure." Starsky's voice trembles and  
he clears his throat. "They're consulting some specialist in New  
York. Should know in a few days." He grimaces. "You know that  
decision Terry has to make? It's a doozy. The doc says if she stays  
in bed, flat on her back, she could live up to a year. But if she gets  
up and moves around, it'll...it'll be..."

Screw distance. I walk up and grasp his arm in both hands. "I'm  
sorry, Starsk. I am so damn sorry."

"She won't let me help her decide, Hutch." His voice is bewildered,  
like a little boy whose best friend just told him to go home. "She  
wants to do it all by herself. I don't understand."

I can only imagine what Terry must be feeling right now,  
struggling to cope with Starsky's grief as well as her own. With  
effort, I keep my reply firm but gentle. "She's hurting, buddy.  
Maybe she just needs a little time." 

His grasp on the pew turns white-knuckled, and his breathing rapid  
and uneven. "I love her, Hutch. She's the only person I've ever  
known, besides you, who loves me for me. No conditions, no  
expectations." His face crumples and he abruptly turns the pew  
loose and buries both hands in my jacket. "How can I just...just  
watch her die? Huh? What am I supposed to do?"

Starsky's face blurs as I nearly lose control over my own tears. "Be  
there for her, buddy. Love her, just the way you always have. She  
needs you."

He drops his chin until his forehead rests against my chest, still  
clutching my jacket like a lifeline. "I wanna wake up, Hutch. For  
this all to be a bad dream. Why can't I just wake up?" His words  
are choked with anguish, and I feel the first tears soak into my  
shirt.

I cup one hand around the nape of his neck, rubbing knotted back  
muscles with the other. "Let it out, Starsk. I'm here for you now.  
And later..." I swallow the lump of sorrow in my own throat.  
"Later you'll be there for Terry."

After several minutes he pulls away, scrubbing at the moisture on  
his cheeks with the sleeve of his jacket. He shuffles up the short  
aisle and drops into the front pew, staring vacantly up at the cross.

"What's the point, Hutch?"

I frown, studying the back of his head as if it will somehow give  
me a clue to what he's thinking. "The point?"

"The point of this." He gestures, voice bitter. "Life. What purpose  
is there to it, when in the blink of an eye a loony tune with a gun  
can take away someone like Terry? Someone so kind and sweet  
and unselfish, who has people who need her, who...who love her."

You want me to explain the meaning of life? You've got an awful  
lot of faith in me, partner.

I walk over to sit beside him. He's propped his chin on his  
knuckles, elbows resting on his knees, so I place my hand on the  
curve of his spine. Though no longer trembling, I can feel tension  
humming through him like current through a wire.

I've done a bit of thinking on this subject myself--after my struggle  
to kick the heroin, after losing Gillian. I take a deep breath and  
attempt to put it into words.

"Maybe we don't see the purpose because we're looking in the  
wrong place, Starsk. Maybe we're so busy looking at the big stuff--  
money, power, success--that we're missing the real point."

Starsky's reply is lackluster. "Which is?"

I lift one shoulder. "The little things. How, even on the worst days,  
Terry can make you smile. Her willingness to accept all of you--" I  
nudge him--"even me and the job, without jealousy or resentment.  
The way she's touched the life of every kid in that school, making  
them feel special and loved." I shake my head in frustration at my  
inability to say exactly what I mean. "Then again, maybe I'm  
crazy," I mutter.

Starsky sits up and looks at me. "You're not crazy, Hutch. And  
what you said...it makes sense, I guess. But it doesn't really change  
anything." Something in his expression shifts, eyes going flat and  
hard as stone, mouth compressing to a thin line. "I'm gonna get  
whoever did this, Hutch. Ain't nothing gonna stand in my way."

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't having the same feelings. But I also  
recognized the danger.

"I want him too, Starsk. But you have to know--that's not going to  
change anything either." 

Starsky stands, his emotions back under iron control. "Maybe not.  
But it'll make me feel a helluva lot better."

It won't, of course.

I follow him out the door without argument. Eventually, he'll  
figure it out, and when he does, I'll be there.

 


End file.
